Cheryl Holt Read Free

her simply because circumstances had laid her low? She was doing the best she could.
    Her affront was palpable, and it seemed to register with the thick fellow. “I understand your dreadful situation,” Fitch claimed, “but I want to confirm that you grasp the consequences of what you’re about.”
    “It’s just a job, Mr. Fitch. I’ll survive it.”
    “If you’re so determined, at least you could have costumed yourself for the part.” He assessed her functional gray gown, with its high neck, long sleeves, and white cuffs. “The earl has instructed everyone to wear red.”
    “Why?”
    “It’s his favorite color.”
    On a governess?
“Do I look like the sort of person who would own a red dress?”
    “No; that’s why I can’t fathom your going through with this.” He spun away. “I’ll fetch you when it’s your turn.”
    He stomped off, and she seethed in the quiet. A table of punch and scones had been arranged, which she deemed touching and odd. She walked over to it and was embarrassed at how her stomach growled. She wolfed down a scone; then, peeking about to guarantee no one was watching, she stuffed more into her purse. In their dismal rented room, food was a scarce commodity, and Mary and Rose would enjoy the treat.
    The scone was a tad dry, and she ladled a glass of punch to wash it down. The liquid was bubbly and fruity, and she liked how it tickled her throat, how it heated her cheeks. She had another and another, swilling it so quickly that the sweet concoction made her dizzy.
    There was a mirror on the wall, and she stared into it. She’d been reduced to penury, to thieving a rich man’s pastries in order to eat. When her entire life had been ripped to shreds, how could she appear so normal?
    Her auburn hair was in a tidy bun, the wavy strands meticulously concealed with dozens of pins and combs. Her emerald eyes were expressive, guileless, providing ample evidence that she was the innocent Mr. Fitch had accused her of being. She’d been raised in a quaint village, the daughter of a gentleman, a homebody who’d whiled away the years caring for her aging parents and invalid sister.
    She was so far out of her element. How could she hope to convince Lord Winchester that she’d be a proficient governess?
    Her nerves frayed, she gulped several more glasses of punch, and the frothy pink mixture had a palliativeeffect. She slumped down in her chair, her limbs loose and too relaxed to hold her in the seat. If she wasn’t vigilant, she’d slide to the rug.
    What was in the punch? She hadn’t thought to inquire. If she didn’t know better, she’d suspect Lord Winchester had spiked it with liquor.
    She hiccupped—loudly—as a ruckus erupted in the hall. Another applicant had finished her interview and was leaving. As the woman passed by, Emily was shocked.
    The woman was a strumpet! She was attired in a bright crimson dress, the bodice cut so low that it barely covered anything that ought to be covered. She had an enormous bosom, her breasts trying to escape the confines of her corset. Her brows had been plucked, and her lips were painted red, her cheeks, too, and she’d donned an elaborate hat with a feather trailing behind.
    This was her competition? What was Lord Winchester thinking? Who would let such an unrestrained trollop in the door? Her confidence soared. Within the hour, she’d have the position; then she’d rush back to Mary with the marvelous news.
    The woman halted and bluntly evaluated Emily’s conservative outfit.
    “Lord, love”—the woman sneered—“what are you pretending to be? The maidenly governess?”
    “I’m not
pretending
,” Emily insisted. “I am the ah . . . the ah . . .” Her mind was fuzzy, her tongue tangled.
    “I wouldn’t count on landing the post,” the woman brashly maintained. “Not after how I entertained him.”
    Emily panicked. What did the hussy know that Emily didn’t? What covert deeds was a governess required to perform? “How have